


Upside Down and All Around

by sheerrloockk



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Fluff, Frottage, Luckily John's pretty cool with it, M/M, Unexpected bisexuality, Unilock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-11
Updated: 2013-06-11
Packaged: 2017-12-14 17:01:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/839245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheerrloockk/pseuds/sheerrloockk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's 24 and stuck in a rut at a coffee shop job. His landlady Mrs. Hudson keeps him sheltered and employed, but he's starting to feel the dull ache of boredom in his life. When a new neighbor moves in to 221b upstairs, John's life gets turned upside and all around. But it might be a good thing, especially if his neighbor, Sherlock Holmes, keeps wearing those tight silk shirts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Upside Down and All Around

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry about this unbelievably bad title, I really could not think of anything better. Anyway, I just felt like writing a big ol' fluff fest. I hope you like it. I hope you can ignore the fact that Sherlock and John have sex on their first date. Tee hee. :P

John worked the opening shift at the Speedy’s Bakery and Café. He unlocked at four thirty am and opened by five. He always made himself a double espresso before opening – there was no way he could deal with bleary-eyed business-people and insomniac university students without some caffeine in his system.

At exactly five am, the unlocked door opened with a tinkling bell sound and John got to work. Another cashier/barista would arrive by seven, when the lines would start to reach out the door.

Such was John Watson’s life. At twenty-four, he was working in a coffee shop to pay rent and had no idea what he wanted to do. He’d spent one term at university before dropping out, unsure of what he wanted and unwilling to spend the money on a degree he might not even use. He’d been at Speedy’s since he was nineteen, just after he’d left uni.

The insomniac students changed a bit every year. Sometimes graduates would come in and thank John personally for helping them through the semester with coffee and a friendly smile, and John would feel a whoosh of satisfaction in his gut and his next three drinks were always the best of the day. He liked to feel needed, and it was probably the customers who kept John in this mostly dead-end job. He felt no real love for espresso drinks or pastries beyond consuming them himself, but the astonished smile he got when he handed a regular customer their drink before they’d even ordered made him feel like he was worth something to someone, somewhere. And Mrs. Hudson, his employer, was a sweet woman who respected him both as a person and an employee.

So he’d stayed. For years and years. When he was twenty-one, Mrs. Hudson had offered John a flat in her building right next door for a reduced rate. He’d jumped at the opportunity, especially since she wasn’t lowering his pay. And so he lived in central London, right beside his job; while he wasn’t _happy_ , for now it was enough.

One morning in early September, John opened the door to 221 Baker Street and saw a large van parked at the curb. He paused and looked up and down the road, but he saw no one. He shrugged to himself and went over to the door to Speedy’s in the morning darkness. By the time he went back to re-unlocked the door at five, there were movers transporting boxes from the now-open van into 221. John had a new neighbor, he realized. He smiled. _‘A change would be nice and interesting,’_ he thought.

At seven am, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed Molly Hooper hurried in, grabbing an apron and busying herself at the register immediately.

“Hey, Molly,” said John. She smiled at him.

“Hey, John,” she replied before turning her full attention to the customer, whose Americano John had already started. The line grew and grew, and they did not get a break until ten am. When the last tinkle of the door shutting sounded, Molly slumped forward onto the counter.

“Oh my god,” she moaned. “Every day it’s like this. I need to switch my hours.” John chuckled.

“It _is_ a lot slower in the evening,” he said. He stretched his shoulders and went into the back to grab a few more pastries that were cooling. “Morning, Mrs. H,” he said. She looked up and him, smiling widely.

“Oh good morning, John!” she said. “Those Danishes are all ready, so you take that tray on out there.”

“What are you making now?” asked John, carefully lifting the tray.

“Oh, probably some kind of scone,” she said absently, pulling out her massive cookbook and flipping around through the pages.

“Sounds great,” said John. He took the tray out and refilled the display case, then refilled the hot and iced coffee dispensers, then cleaned the espresso machine thoroughly.

“Do you want to take the register for the brunch rush?” asked Molly. “I think I might go completely bonkers if I press any more buttons.”

“No problem,” said John, and he swapped positions with Molly just as the door opened again at eleven on the dot. Another rush, but this one was usually slightly shorter, and John liked talking to people. He was always polite, even if the customer was rude. (Honestly though, there weren’t as many rude people as he’d expected when he took the job.) He always smiled back when the customer gratefully took the coffee and moved away.

At twelve thirty, it slowed again, and John and Molly continued restocking.

“So you know how Mrs. Hudson lives right next door in those flats?” asked John, leaning against the counter.

“Mhm,” said Molly as she arranged pastries.

“Well, I live in the basement flat, right? And somebody else moved in today,” said John, grinning. “Got a new neighbor. I wonder if whoever it is will come in to the shop.”

“That’s so nice, John,” said Molly, smiling up at him. “New neighbors are so much fun. Have you ever been the new neighbor?”

“Once or twice,” said John, shrugging.

“I was once,” said Molly, laughing. “I was so nervous. I was only about eight, but when the kids around came to meet me, I almost _fainted_!” John laughed. “But it worked out,” Molly continued. “I stayed conscious and the kids I met were all very nice.”

“That’s good,” said John, still laughing. He glanced at the clock. It was almost one. Two more hours until his shift was over.

 

When three o’clock hit, and the next set of baristas and cashiers arrived, John was headed directly back to his flat for a nap. He’d make himself an early dinner afterwards and spend his evenings as he usually did – alone. He pulled open the heavy door, annoyed with himself for wishing he were still at work, and ran straight into the new person from upstairs.

“Oh, excuse me,” said John, taking a step back. Unfortunately, there wasn’t space to take a whole step, and he began to fall backwards towards the sidewalk. White hands shot out and grabbed him, pulling him upright. His chest was heaving with unexpected adrenaline and he looked up at his new neighbor.

“Thanks,” he said, grinning.

“No trouble at all,” said the young man in a deep, sonorous voice. He was tall, thin, and pale. His cheekbones and lips were almost caricature-like, but somehow they suited his nonchalant demeanor, not to mention his obviously designer wool coat.

“Are you the new neighbor upstairs?” asked John, even though he’d already assumed as much.

“Obviously,” said the man, raising a condescending eyebrow. “And you must be the ‘sweet helper’ in Mrs. Hudson’s basement flat. Sherlock Holmes,” said the man, holding out a hand. Blushing at what was obviously Mrs. Hudson’s praise, John shook it.

“John Watson,” he replied.

“Yes, well, it’s certainly been _scintillating_ meeting you, John Watson, but I’m afraid I have places to be. I suppose I’ll see you around.” John nodded and moved out of the way as Sherlock Holmes blustered past him, tossing out a hand carelessly for a taxi. One slid up next to him almost immediately and he was off.

John smiled to himself before he yawned widely. Sherlock Holmes seemed a bit like a pompous arse, but that was certainly better than someone who was _boring_. He hoped he’d see Sherlock Holmes again soon.

 

John saw hide nor hair of Sherlock Holmes for nearly a week, not until one evening, just as John was leaving his flat with an armful of laundry, Sherlock Holmes came bounding down the stairs with another young man. This young man had the same height, high cheekbones, and dignified presence as Sherlock, but where Sherlock was dark, this young man was light and golden.

“Oh, hello, Mr. Watson,” said Sherlock pleasantly.

“Please call me John,” said John earnestly. He almost added, _‘Mr. Watson is my father_ ,’ but thought better of it.

“John,” repeated Sherlock. “This is my… associate, Victor Trevor.” The man beside Sherlock sighed, clearly exasperated, before addressing John.

“Pleased to meet you,” said Victor, sparing John a glance before refocusing on Sherlock. “Come along, Sherlock, we’re going to be late.” He turned around, his yellow hair whipping around with him, and pushed open the door to 221b.

“Sorry,” said Sherlock, grinning. “Tomorrow’s first day of classes and Victor wants us to meet up with his _friends_. He’s still hoping he’ll turn me on to the economics track. As if that would ever happen.”

“You’re at uni?” asked John.

“By force,” said Sherlock flippantly. “Better be off though. I’ll probably stop by Speedy’s tomorrow morning before I head in to school. I assume you’ll be there, since you’re there every day and have no other engagements in the morning.”

“I – yes,” said John, brow furrowing. “I’ll see you then.” Sherlock nodded, smiling despite the fact that John was not hiding his discomfort at what Sherlock had said.

“ _Sherlock_ , the taxi is _waiting_ ,” called Victor, and Sherlock rolled his eyes and followed the young man into the black cab.

 

For a Monday, it was _excruciatingly_ slow. It was six-thirty, still half an hour before Molly and Mrs. Hudson arrived, and John was bored out of his skull. He hadn’t had a customer in nearly fifteen minutes. He thought about checking if the lights looked off from the outside, debating whether or not it was worth it to check.  Just as he decided that it couldn’t hurt, the door opened and the bell chimed and John looked up eagerly into the face of Sherlock Holmes.

“Morning,” said Sherlock. He leaned down to assess the pastry situation. His coat fell open and John noticed that Sherlock was wearing a deep purple shirt that looked a bit too tight for his upper body. He blushed a bit at the thought and tried to focus instead on Sherlock’s forthcoming order. Sherlock’s eyes were lingering on one of Mrs. Hudson’s famous carrot cake cupcakes. There were only two left from the day before. Sherlock straightened up, blue eyes boring into John’s.

“Good morning,” said John. “Anything I can get you?”

“Yes, a latte,” said Sherlock. “And a cupcake. I never could resist Mrs. Hudson’s baked goods.”

“You know her?”

“She’s my landlady,” Sherlock pointed out.

“You already knew her, though?” clarified John, slightly annoyed. He _knew_ Sherlock had known what he meant.

“Oh yes, she and my grandmother were excellent friends,” he said. “I’ve known her since I was born. How much is that coffee?” John told him and Sherlock handed him the appropriate bills. John handed Sherlock the coffee and his change; Sherlock dropped all of it into the tip jar. John paused for a moment, unsure, but then – since there was no one else in the shop besides the two of them – he decided to ask.

“How did you know I’m here every day?”

“Hm? Oh!” Sherlock looked up from his coffee, eyes bright and a wicked smile on his face. “Well, you work and live by Mrs. Hudson. Knowing Mrs. Hudson’s generosity like I do, you certainly have lowered rent – much lower than mine, by the way. In the past week, I’ve heard you going down the steps to your flat around three in the afternoon consistently, and I know that you open the shop every morning. Or at least, every morning since I moved in.”

“How?”

“By _observing_ , John Watson. I poked my head in, and every time, you were at the register, swamped by mindless caffeine craving morons.”

“Then how’d you know I had ‘no other engagements’?” asked John, raising an eyebrow.

“You live alone. You rarely go out and no one comes over. So no girlfriend. I’ve heard you reascend your steps once, and it was for takeaway,” said Sherlock. “Why should this particular Monday be any different?” Sherlock raised the coffee cup to his lips and took a sip.

“That’s amazing,” said John. Sherlock lowered the cup.

“You think so?” he said.

“Of course,” said John, laughing suddenly. “It was extraordinary!”

“That’s… not what people normally say,” said Sherlock.

“What do people normally say?”

“‘Piss off,’” said Sherlock, grinning. John laughed again. “I don’t actually have to leave until seven. Why don’t you take a break and sit with me?”

“Oh,” said John, stumbling. “I can’t leave… the register…”

“There’s no one else here,” said Sherlock. “And if someone comes in, you can get up to help them.” He had a point. John moved around the counter and sat across from Sherlock, facing the front door.

“So, what are you studying?” asked John. Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes, but answered.

“Biochemistry and physiology,” he said, unwinding his blue scarf from around his neck. “I’m going to be a detective. I’m thinking of taking a philosophy class as well. Just to see if I like it. I probably won’t like it though, considering the complete _idiots_ who attend university these days.”

“You’re one of those idiots,” John reminded him. Sherlock glared at him for a moment.

“I told you, I’m at uni by force,” he said. “Mummy needed a way to keep an eye on me, and my brother is an administrator. It’s thanks to them I have this place. I suppose it’s better than living in a _residence hall_.”

“The halls aren’t so bad,” said John, grinning at the memory. “I had fun in them.”

“Yes, because you were at university for the social aspect rather than the academic,” said Sherlock. “Of course _you_ enjoyed the halls.”

“Yeah, well,” said John, trailing off. He wanted to have something smart and stinging to reply with, but Sherlock was right. He’d gone in without any idea of where he was headed, and look where that left him, five years later.

“Oh don’t mope,” said Sherlock. “It’s not like you’re a thirty-five year old divorcee and two children to support with this job.”

“Well you seem to have a _plan_ ,” said John, waving a hand in Sherlock’s direction. “You’ve got somewhere to go. You know what you want to _do_.”

“My _plan_ is to spend my life searching for intellectual stimulation,” said Sherlock. “Becoming a detective is simply the path I believe to be quickest to that end goal. Everything I do is research for what is the most interesting, the most complex puzzle I can find.” John smirked.

“Even this conversation?” he asked.

“Obviously,” said Sherlock, quirking a smile and an eyebrow.

“Well, I imagine I’m a tough nut to crack,” said John sarcastically. “Especially considering you informed me that I don’t have a girlfriend a few minutes ago. How did you even know that bit?”

“It had a lot to do with noting how you never go anywhere and no one ever comes over to your flat, and also the bit where Mrs. Hudson hinted that you might be gay,” said Sherlock. John’s jaw dropped open in surprise. Sherlock burst into laughter at the sight of John’s incredulous expression.

“J-Just because I humored her and agreed that George Clooney is _dishy_ ,” said John, still astonished. “Honestly.” Sherlock continued laughing. “I mean it’s fine –“

“I know it’s fine,” said Sherlock through laughter.

“Well, what about you then?” asked John, desperate to change the subject. “Have you got a girlfriend?”

“Girlfriend? No, not really my area,” said Sherlock, regaining his breath.

“Oh,” said John. “Have you got a boyfriend then?”

“No,” said Sherlock. “Victor certainly likes to _think_ he’s my boyfriend sometimes, but really I’m just in it for the free cab rides all over London.”

“Sounds like a deep emotional attachment,” said John.

“There’s nothing on both sides, don’t fret,” said Sherlock, picking up his scarf again. “He only keeps me around because of my family’s _notoriety_ in some circles. Anyway, I should get going. It’s almost seven and Molly will be here any moment. I really don’t feel like abiding by her ridiculous crush. Mrs. Hudson was nudging in that direction as well. I don’t understand how she’s got our sexualities so completely backwards.”

“Backwards?”

“I’m the gay one and you’re the bisexual one,” said Sherlock simply. “Anyway, must be off. See you around, John Watson.” He winked and stood up, taking the paper bag holding the cupcake and leaving the empty coffee cup on the table for John to clean up. He swooped out of Speedy’s with a swirl of his long, billowing coat.

 

Bisexual? John hadn’t really considered it. Okay so he and his mates had had a few mutual wank sessions in secondary school, but didn’t everybody? Yes, he’d kissed another bloke once, but he’d been drunk and felt horribly embarrassed the next day.  Yes, he’d always been able to discern when other men were attractive, but he’d never _fancied_ another bloke before. He’d fancied girls. Many girls.

He thought of Sherlock Holmes and his sharp cheekbones and long coat and his seemingly innate ability to just _know_ things about John. A shiver ran down John’s spine and his hands shook for a brief second. He thought about the fact that Sherlock was taller than he was; he thought about Sherlock crowding him against a wall, looking down at him with an insufferable smirk on his face, and he thought of snogging that smirk right off his face.

“ _Hello?_ Is John in there?”

John jerked horribly back to reality and Sherlock’s mug went crashing to the floor. Molly leapt back, gasping.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” said John, holding a hand across his eyes, trying to regain his mental bearings.

“No, no,” said Molly, her hand on her heaving chest. “I shouldn’t have surprised you like that. You were sitting there and you didn’t even see me walk in. I thought you might’ve fallen asleep with your eyes open.”

“No,” said John. “I was just… lost in my own mind. Sorry, sorry, I’ll clean this up.” He gestured to the shards of mug on the floor. He pulled himself out of his chair and grabbed the broom, trying and failing not to notice the long, cylindrical shape of it.

“Are you alright?” asked Molly, once John had put the broom away and thrown out the ceramic shards. “You looked a bit like… you might’ve been having… some kind of mental breakdown.” John laughed, hoping it would sound natural, but it sounded nervous even to his own ears. Molly began to look concerned.

“No, no,” he said. “I’m fine. Maybe a little tired. These early mornings get you after a while, you know?”

“Do you want to leave early?” asked Molly. “It looks like it’s going to be pretty slow.”

“Nah,” said John. He gave himself a mental shake. If he was going to have a massive sexuality crisis at twenty-four rather than at puberty, then the least he could do was wait until his shift was over like a proper Englishman.

 

John sat in the dingy sitting room that was 221c Baker Street with a beer in his hand. He’d splurged and bought a six-pack at the Tesco along with his usual pasta, toast, and beans. He felt he deserved it, considering the agonizing soul-searching he had planned for himself that evening.

Sherlock Holmes said he was bisexual. He hadn’t used it as a slight, hadn’t made it a joke. He’d said it as though it were fact, got up, _winked_ , and left John alone with his thoughts.

Sherlock Holmes had moved into 221b barely over a week ago. John couldn’t understand when, in that time, he’d become so obsessed with him. He barely knew anything about the man. But he’d thought of Sherlock, he realized with horrifying clarity, every single day since he’d moved in. He’d thought about asking Sherlock round for dinner, about seeing Sherlock in at Speedy’s.

All he knew about Sherlock Holmes was that he was fidgety, arrogant, and a bit of a prick. He also knew what Sherlock’s laughter sounded like and the way his face expanded and brightened when he genuinely smiled. His heart and stomach lurched in unison.

John replayed as much of their conversation from that morning over again in his head. Had Sherlock been _flirting_ with him? Sherlock didn’t really seem like the flirting type. But that _wink_ …

 

John didn’t see Sherlock again for another two days. On Wednesday, however, at exactly two-thirty in the afternoon, Sherlock walked through the door, coat billowing behind him and blue scarf wrapped carefully around his neck. John tried with all his might not to notice that the scarf made Sherlock’s neck look extremely _long_.

“Coffee,” said Sherlock once he reached the register. Silently, John got him the coffee as he exchanged bills and change with Molly. “John,” said Sherlock, jerking his head. Then he walked away with absolutely no explanation.

“I think he wants you to go with him,” said Molly. “Go for it. Just come back if it gets busy.” John nodded and walked around the counter after Sherlock.

“Don’t bother sitting,” said Sherlock. “But when you’re finished with your shift, change quickly and get back over here. I need your help with something.”

“Can’t it… wait?” asked John.

“Of course it can,” said Sherlock. John could hear the exasperation in his voice. “That’s why I’m waiting until the end of your shift rather than pulling you out of the shop right now.”

At exactly three, Sherlock stood, nodded at John and then at the clock above the counter, and left. John looked at Molly.

“Better go,” she said, grinning. John pulled off his apron and walked out the front door, looking left and right, but Sherlock was nowhere in sight.

“Get changed,” he muttered to himself. He hurried back to 221c and opened his wardrobe. He realized then that he had no idea where Sherlock was planning on taking him. Was it a date? He felt a nervous lump rise in his throat and he pushed the thought down. Certainly not.

He decided quickly on a pair of jeans (his nicest pair of jeans), a button-up, and a cardigan (the one Harry’s gotten him for Christmas with a note attached that said ‘ _it’ll bring out your baby blue eyes, baby brother’_ ). He slid his feet into his spare work shoes (nicer than he usual work shoes, and with great arch support). He ran a hand through his hair and ascended the steps and walked out onto Baker Street.

“God, finally,” said Sherlock’s voice from directly behind him. “It’s nearly three-twenty, what _took_ so long? It starts at four.”

“I didn’t know where we were going,” said John.

“Irrelevant,” said Sherlock. “Alright, I’ll get us a cab.”

“Where _are_ we going?”

“My brother’s _engagement_ party,” said Sherlock. John paused. He couldn’t tell if Sherlock was pulling his leg or not. Sherlock sighed. “Yes, really,” he added, and threw his hand into the air. Moments later, a cab slid up beside them on the curb. “Now get in.”

 

Sherlock gave the cabbie the address and proceeded to forget about the cabbie’s entire existence. He snapped the door shut and turned to John, talking so quickly that John had to concentrate to catch everything.

“My brother suspects that one of his _underlings_ is leaking private information about the university to other schools. I forget what information particularly, I must’ve deleted it because it was boring, but he wants me to find out which one of his employees is the leak. He’s masking the event as his engagement party, which I personally find _hilarious_ due to the fact that he’s a fat slob and he could _never_ get anyone to agree to date him, let alone _marry_ him. He’s going to end up married to a piece of cheesecake. Anyway, I’m supposed to surreptitiously interrogate all of the guests.”

“Why are you bringing –”

“I’m getting to that, if you’d shut up and listen,” said Sherlock, clearly annoyed. “I’ve been told it’s customary to bring _dates_ to these things. It would certainly give an air of legitimacy to the whole thing if _I_ brought a date. My only other options are Victor and Molly. Victor would dominate the conversations, making it much more difficult to form any hypotheses, and Molly is a terrible actress. She also might think it’s actually a date, which is problematic. That leaves you, and from what I gather about you, you enjoy _helping_ people. Currently, I need your help. I thought I could capitalize on that. I need you to act as though you’re horrendously enamored with me and let me do most of the talking. Also, you should’ve worn nicer shoes. And possibly a tie.”

“You’re not wearing a tie,” said John.

“I don’t wear ties,” said Sherlock. With that, he turned and looked out the window, signally to John quite clearly that the conversation – or lecture – was over. John looked out his own window and tried not to feel hurt.

It was strange, though. Sherlock had chosen John over everyone else he knew – which seemed to only consist of Victor and Molly, somehow – to accompany him on this investigation. He’d chosen John based on his interests and abilities. John knew he should feel happy, maybe even proud, that Sherlock wanted _him_ to accompany him, but his mind had focused in on the phrase ‘ _think it’s actually a date._ ’ He couldn’t help but feel a little… disappointed.

 

“Here we are,” said Sherlock. “I assume that, since you haven’t insisted the cab turn around, that you’re on board for the charade I proposed?” John looked over at Sherlock and shrugged. Sherlock snorted at John’s enthusiasm. “Alright,” he continued, “just remember: as far as anyone knows at this establishment, we’re already in a relationship. We’re going to have to appear nauseatingly in love and nauseatingly happy for Mycroft and Anthea.”

“Is Mycroft your –”

“Obviously,” said Sherlock, cutting John off before he could complete his question. “Now let’s go.”

They got out and Sherlock paid the cabbie quickly. He reached his hand out to John, who stared at it, confused. Sherlock sigh, aggravated, and snatched John’s hand into his, twining their fingers together and tugging him across the street and through a plain black door. They got into a lift at the end of a long hallway and Sherlock pressed the number 19.

“How old are you?” asked John suddenly.

“Twenty-one,” said Sherlock, who’d pulled out his phone and was texting one-handed. “No one’s going to ask about the age gap.”

“They might ask how we met, though,” said John.

“Just follow my lead,” said Sherlock, slipping his phone back into his pocket.

The lift doors opened into an immaculate, golden hallway. Sherlock yanked John down the short hallway and pulled him to the left into an enormous ballroom. It had hanging chandeliers and _everything_. John’s jaw dropped as his eyes swept over the grandiose luxuriousness, the extravagance. He was convinced that the cups on the tables were made of diamond rather than plebian glass. Someone took their coats, and John couldn’t tear his eyes away from the beauty of the room even as he peeled his coat from his arms.

“Don’t look so astonished by expensive things,” muttered Sherlock. “You can be impressed, but don’t be _too_ impressed.”

“Why? They’ll know I’m a _commoner_?” asked John sharply. Sherlock’s face split into a grin.

“That’s exactly why,” he said. He squeezed John’s hand, and John’s heart thudded in his chest. For some reason, all the nerves in his hands seemed to be working overtime. He could feel the texture of Sherlock’s fingers against the back of his hand. He wasn’t sure what to do with his free left hand, so he stuffed it in one of his pockets.

“Ah, Sherlock! There you are,” said a smooth voice. A tall, pudgy man moved towards them, and John could tell from Sherlock’s expression that this was his brother.

“ _Mycroft_ ,” said Sherlock snidely. “Happy _engagement_.” Mycroft glared.

“Everyone who works in the office is wearing a red pin,” Mycroft quipped. He then turned to give John an appraising look. He turned back to Sherlock and continued. “I thought you were bringing Victor.”

“Victor’s busy this evening,” said Sherlock dismissively. Mycroft could clearly tell that Sherlock was lying, as he sighed heavily.

“Well, I certainly hope you know what you’re doing,” he said.

“ _You_ asked me to do this,” snapped Sherlock. “Don’t question my methods.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and walked away without replying. Sherlock seemed to take this as a win, and he pulled John towards the bar. He grabbed two flutes of champagne and handed one to John.

“So, everyone with a red pin,” said Sherlock. “There are twelve people wearing red pins. Should take about an hour, maybe an hour and a half if the culprit is particularly clever. Ready?”

John, who had just taken a sip of the champagne, pulled it away quickly and spluttered a bit as he replied. “Yeah, uh, yeah,” he said. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but thankfully said nothing. He slipped his hand back in John’s and began meandering around the room.

 

Within minutes, people came up to them and congratulated Sherlock on his brother’s engagement. Sherlock played the role of proud brother surprisingly well, considering John could tell how much Sherlock despised his brother. Perhaps it was a sixth sense born among people who hated their siblings. The only good thing Harry’d ever done for John was buy him this cardigan for Christmas.

John zoned out of the conversation, which seemed to focus on Sherlock’s pleasant surprise that his brother had found someone so _quickly_ , and instead took a good look at Sherlock. He was wearing a pair of tight designer jeans and a silk turquoise button-up shirt with the first button undone. It was open and displayed his collarbones. He looked _fashionable_ , and John was certain that he looked like somebody’s grandfather in comparison. He glanced down at his shoes and noticed immediately how _shiny_ Sherlock’s were. His own were scuffed. He looked up quickly, trying not to dwell on it. Sherlock looked _amazing_ , of course, but that just seemed to fit his carefully constructed persona. Maybe this outfit was a costume he’d adopted for the task at hand.

But no, John realized, recalling what Sherlock had worn on Monday. A similar set. Dark wash fitted jeans and the purple shirt that John had not managed to forget in the two days since he’d seen Sherlock.

“John!” said Sherlock, nudging him with his shoulder. He realized with _horror_ that he’d been staring avidly at Sherlock’s _neck_. He could feel himself reddening, but he tried to focus on the conversation. He’d obviously been asked a question, but he hadn’t heard it.

“C-Could you repeat…?” he stammered. The man across from him chuckled.

“Well, that almost answers my question,” he said. “I’d asked if you two had lost the spark yet, but clearly not.”

“Well, we only just told my parents last weekend,” said Sherlock, letting go of John’s hand to wrap his arm around John’s shoulder. John’s hand automatically moved up to the small of Sherlock’s back.

“It’s still rather new,” John agreed, his voice still shaking due to mortification. He laughed uncomfortably, but the man seemed willing to forgive his faux pas.

“I certainly hope your brother and his fiancée are as enthusiastic as you two seem to be,” said the man, raising his own champagne flute at the two of them.

Sherlock thanked him graciously.

“I don’t believe I caught your name,” said the man to John.

“Oh, John Watson,” said John, holding out the hand that wasn’t laid against Sherlock’s hip.

“Sebastian Wilkes,” said the man. “Department Head of Economics. Must say, I’m quite proud of that title. Spent the last four years trying to earn it.”

“And now you have done,” said Sherlock. “What’s next for you?” Sebastian Wilkes shrugged, looking around the room.

“Perhaps I’ll follow your brother’s example,” he said.  “I haven’t had anybody special in my life lately. Been far too busy… achieving the height of my ambitions.” He smiled, mostly to himself. The hair on the back of John’s neck stood up, and his instinct told him that this man was not to be trusted. He glanced at Sherlock to see if he’d picked up on it, but his face was unreadable.

“Yes, it’s quite nice to start sharing your life with someone else,” agreed Sherlock, tightening his hold on John’s shoulder. “John has become quite a fixture of my life. I could see him every morning when I wake up and every night before I go to bed and not get tired of his smiles.” There was a warm swoop in John’s stomach and he lost focus on his train of thought. He looked up at Sherlock, eyes wide, and Sherlock smiled down at him. It looked sincere, the twinkle in Sherlock’s eyes could not be feigned. Sherlock cocked his head as if considering something for a moment before leaning down and dropping and kiss onto John’s lips.

The kiss was short and chaste, but Sherlock’s lips against John’s were loose. It wasn’t a kiss of a forced situation. Sherlock pressed his soft lips against John’s, lingering for a moment before pulling back. Sherlock looked immensely pleased with himself before turning back to Sebastian Wilkes.

“If you would please excuse us, my brother seems to be waving me over in his direction,” said Sherlock, pulling John, stunned, after him.

“Well, that was convenient,” said Sherlock, the moment they were out of earshot. “I expected this to take at _least_ thirty minutes, but the culprit was the second person we spoke to. This is probably the fastest I’ve ever solved a case like this.”

“It _was_ him, then?”

“Yes. Did you think it was?”

“Well, I didn’t _know_ ,” said John, finally pulling himself together. “But there was just something in the way he talked that made my instincts go off.”

“Very perceptive, John,” said Sherlock, sounding pleased. “He wanted to be Department Head, yes, but he’s quite power hungry. He is dissatisfied having to listen to his higher-ups, including my brother. He’d feeding some financial information to surrounding schools, in hopes that they’ll offer him a higher position than the one he has already. It probably would’ve worked, if anyone but Mycroft had been the superior.”

Sherlock let go of John’s hand as he addressed Mycroft quietly. Mycroft nodded and jerked his head in the direction of the exit, which John understood to mean that Sherlock was free to go. Sherlock smirked at Mycroft and took off towards the exit, and John hurried after him.

In the lift, Sherlock leaned against the wall and played with his phone. John stood on the other side of the lift, unsure whether or not to say anything. He followed Sherlock out of the lift and onto the street, where Sherlock got into an unmarked black vehicle. John paused, unsure if he was supposed to follow. After a moment, Sherlock popped his head out and snapped, “Well, are you coming or not?” John slid in after him, shut the door, and they were off.

They were completely silent in the car, and it was starting to make John extremely uncomfortable. He wanted to ask where they were going, or if they were _going_ anywhere at all, but the silence felt so thick that he wasn’t sure if his voice would even break through it. Sherlock seemed completely absorbed with his phone and John wasn’t sure if he’d want to be interrupted.

Eventually, the car stopped. Sherlock hopped out of the car and John uncertainly followed him. They were at an Italian restaurant called Angelo’s, and John realized they were within walking distance of Baker Street.

“Are you unfamiliar with the social etiquette surrounding dinners out?” asked Sherlock with a hand on the doorknob.

“No,” said John.

“Then please pool your resources to remember how it works,” said Sherlock. “We’re getting dinner.” He held the door open for John to walk through. He walked up to a table that had a sign that said ‘reserved’ on it, picked it up, and handed it to one of wait staff.

“Thank you, Billy,” he said before sliding into the booth. John sat down, his back to the big window that looked out onto the street.

“You reserved a table?” asked John as Billy returned with a small candle and a wink in John’s direction. He pointedly ignored it.

“Obviously,” said Sherlock. “Called in a favor. The owner, Angelo, owes me. One of his cashiers was stealing out of the till, and I told him which one.”

“You do that sort of thing a lot, then?”

“I did tell you I wanted to be a detective,” said Sherlock raising an eyebrow. “Anyway, I thought I’d provide you with dinner since you helped me out this afternoon.”

“I didn’t really do much,” John pointed out.

“You lent credibility to my actions,” said Sherlock. “That’s more than enough for any charade. And you provided me with pleasing company to my brother’s tedious event. It would’ve taken me _much_ longer without you there, simply because I would’ve been much less inclined to listen. It’s a bit harder for me to stay in character when I’m alone. So, thank you, John. I suggest the Chicken Parmesan, it’s excellent.”

The waiter arrived and took their orders – John took Sherlock’s recommendation. Sherlock ordered each of them a glass of wine, and he raised his glass in John’s direction before taking a sip. John smiled. He felt his stomach clench as Sherlock’s Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed the drink, and he knew then, beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was _interested_ in Sherlock Holmes. He felt the ghost of Sherlock’s lips against his, the feeling of Sherlock’s arm around his shoulder and his waist in John’s hands.

He wanted that again. He wanted that _for real_. But the question was – did Sherlock? Sherlock seemed like the kind of bloke who’d appreciate directness, but John didn’t quite have the stones to just up and ask. Not yet, at least.

As they ate, Sherlock told John a multitude of interesting stories of his previous cases. A few he deemed “boring” and “atrociously simple,” but they fascinated John anyway.

“You’re brilliant!” said John, laughing after Sherlock told him about finding Victor’s lost dog.

“Yes, well, I might be a proper genius, but it didn’t stop the bloody dog from biting me in the ankle. That’s actually how Victor and I met. I wish I could figure out how to get Victor _out_ of my life.”

“He can’t be that bad,” said John.

“He’s tolerable,” said Sherlock, waving a hand. “He’s not unintelligent. But he isn’t _interesting_. I wouldn’t take him to family events, if you take my meaning.”

“What, like the one you just took me to?” asked John, raising an eyebrow.

“Don’t fish for compliments, John,” said Sherlock, grinning. “It isn’t very _polite_. But yes. I must say, you’re quite interesting. You express such happiness despite your massively unfulfilling employment and barren social life. It astounds me. It confuses me. You seem to get such joy simply from receiving a ‘thank you,’ notwithstanding the fact that they are so commonplace and are frequently meaningless. And it goes beyond boring optimism, because you are not _satisfied_ with your life. You seem to enjoy… taking _care_ of things. I’m surprised you don’t have a pet.”

“I thought about getting a dog,” admitted John. “But I don’t think I’m financially stable enough for one. But I do… like taking care of people. I took care of my sister –”

“Sister?” repeated Sherlock, frowning.

“Yes, my sister, Harry,” said John, confused.

“Ah, there’s always something. I thought you had a _brother_ ,” said Sherlock. “You seemed to easily understand my… distaste for Mycroft.”

“Ah,” said John. “Well, no, but I’ve got a similar distaste for my sister. And she for me. I took care of her for a long time, but she never _wanted_ my help and did everything she could to make it difficult. But at the same time, she _needed_ some help. She just didn’t want to accept it _from me_. We haven’t really spoken in a few months.”

“If I could just convince my brother to stop speaking to me, I’d be much happier,” said Sherlock. “Although I suppose that wasn’t really your point. You wish your family dynamic was more traditional.” John shrugged. It was true.

“Can’t really force two people to get along, though,” he said.  “I’d like to find a way for Harry and I to be _civil_ with each other, but she just… always pushes my buttons. On purpose.”

“She probably finds herself failing and takes those anxieties out on you,” said Sherlock. “Which, of course, is unhelpful for you, because you have not yet found direction.”

“She’s certainly failing,” said John bitterly. “She’s become a total alcoholic. Her girlfriend Clara moved out just before the holidays, so Harry was unbearable the entire time. Last I heard, Clara wants to work it out with Harry, but she won’t stay if Harry’s going to keep up the drinking. I’ve tried and tried to get Harry the medical care she needs, but she won’t let me help her. It’s… infuriating.” John paused, realizing he’d just gone on a huge tirade. “Sorry,” he added. “I don’t mean to rant.”

“It’s perfectly alright,” said Sherlock. “Perhaps you should become a doctor. You would get the perks of helping others, _and_ the moral superiority over your sister, _and_ the knowledge of the health care system that would benefit her recovery.”

“That’s not a half-bad idea,” John muttered. “I wouldn’t mind that superiority bit. She’s always held it against me that I haven’t made it through uni yet.” Sherlock rolled his eyes and scoffed.

“You really shouldn’t let your bitter, alcoholic sister’s opinion of you affect so many of your actions,” said Sherlock.

“Probably,” agreed John. “Although, pointing that out? Bit not good.” He looked directly into Sherlock’s eyes for a moment before they both burst into laughter.

“Not good?” said Sherlock through his laughter.

“Timing,” said John, wiping a tear away from his eye.

“Noted,” said Sherlock, his breathing back to normal. There was a huge smile across his face, and in the candlelight, Sherlock looked absolutely stunning. The low light softened his sharp features and accentuated the eager light in his pale eyes.

Sherlock was _alive_ and he was living his life in a way that John wasn’t. Sherlock, John realized, was not only exciting – he was _excited_. And not in a young, idealistic, naïve way. He was unlike anyone John had ever met before and John ached to be close to him, to have that kind of excitement, that purpose, that deep love of _living life_ in his own world every day. The words bubbled up to his lips, but he couldn’t say them. He bit down on his lip and looked away from Sherlock’s face, unable to bring himself to voice his feelings aloud.

“We should probably get back,” said Sherlock. His voice had changed; he sounded a bit… agitated.

“Yes,” agreed John. Sherlock squared the bill by simply nodding in Billy’s direction and the two of them left, beginning the five-minute walk to Baker Street. They were both silent again, but this time it seemed _even more_ uncomfortable than it had been in the car. As they walked, their hands brushed and John recoiled as if stung, shoving his hands blatantly into his pockets to avoid it happening again. He kept his eyes averted from Sherlock, afraid that if he met Sherlock’s gaze again, he’d end up babbling about his feelings and awkwardly attempting to kiss the man.

They reached 221, and Sherlock opened the door and let John walk through first, following and shutting the door with a snap.

“Well,” he said and John turned. Sherlock hung his coat on the railing. “I certainly hope you had an enjoyable afternoon and evening.”

“Definitely different from what I’m used to,” said John, smiling. Sherlock smiled back. The smile slipped quickly, though, and he looked at John, gauging something before coming to a conclusion.

Before John knew what was happening, he found himself pressed against the door to 221 with Sherlock kissing him hungrily. John responded instinctively, grabbing fistfuls of the back of Sherlock’s turquoise shirt, pulling him closer, opening his mouth against Sherlock’s, and silently begging him to continue.

Sherlock took the hint. He ground John back against the door and John couldn’t stop himself from moaning into Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock pulled his lips away long enough to huff a laugh, and then dove back in. With their tongues twining, Sherlock pushed John’s hands away from his body and pulled John’s shirt out of his jeans. His hands roamed across John’s lower back, fingers slipping just under the lip of the denim, and John jerked in surprise. He laughed himself then, and began kissing along Sherlock’s jaw, then down his long, glorious neck. He sucked on the freckle just beside Sherlock’s Adam’s apple – how that freckle had been tormenting him. Sherlock let out a breathy sigh, and pushed John back against the door.

John’s head thumped uncomfortably against the wood. “Ouch,” he said involuntarily, and Sherlock giggled. “Hey,” said John, grinning, “we can’t giggle, we’re snogging.”

“Are we?” said Sherlock. “It seems to me like we’re _talking_ , which I think is a massive waste of time.”

“Couldn’t agree m –” began John, but Sherlock cut him off by reattaching his lips to John’s. It was gentler now. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John’s shoulders and John’s hands fell to Sherlock’s waist. He kissed Sherlock soundly, reveling in the feel of those soft lips against his own.

After a moment, Sherlock pulled back. “Would you like to come upstairs?” he asked, his voice much deeper than usual. The sound shot down John’s spine and settled in between his thighs. He shuddered.

“Absolutely,” said John. Sherlock pulled his arms back, sliding his hands down John’s chest and sliding his fingers between John’s. He pulled John towards the stairs and John couldn’t help but laugh.

“What?” asked Sherlock. “What’s funny?”

“It’s just…” said John, shaking his head. “It’s just, I wasn’t sure if tonight was a date or not.” Sherlock snorted as he pulled John up the steps.

“Really, John? I kissed you in front of all of my brother’s friends and then I bought you dinner!”

“You didn’t _buy_ anything,” said John.

“I bought it with my service to Angelo,” said Sherlock, unlocking the door to 221b.

“Well, you said that Molly would _think_ it was a date, implying that it wasn’t a date,” said John.

“That’s because it’s _Molly_ ,” said Sherlock, yanking John in and shutting the door behind them. “Honestly. She’s a lovely girl, but I’d much rather _stop talking about her_ and shag you into the mattress.” John grinned, and then realized what Sherlock had said.

“Um, about the… the shagging…” he said.

“Shush,” said Sherlock, pulling him close and kissing him. “We’ll do whatever you’re comfortable with.”

Sherlock shoved John backwards onto his huge bed and crawled over him. He had an impish smile on his face. John reached up and began unbuttoning the turquoise shirt and Sherlock leaned down and kissed John’s forehead, his cheek, behind his ear… When Sherlock’s shirt finally fell open, John ran his hands up and down the lean torso. He leaned up kissed along Sherlock’s collarbone and pulling Sherlock down against him, eager to feel Sherlock’s weight against him.

He could feel Sherlock’s hardness through both of their jeans and his heart sped up. As much as he wanted this, John was still nervous. He’d never done _this_ with another man before, and he had no idea what to do.

“Just do what feels right,” whispered Sherlock, apparently still deducing John even now. “I promise I’ll let you know if you’re doing it wrong.”

“That’s what I’m worried about,” said John, turning his head and capturing Sherlock’s lips with his own. Sherlock hummed.

“You’re doing spectacular so far,” he said before rearing back, pulling off his shirt completely, and throwing it onto the floor. He set to work unbuttoning John and unwrapping him like a present. He kissed down John’s chest as he unbuttoned the shirt and he pulled off John’s shirt and cardigan together, tossing them after his shirt. He kissed John on the lips again, gently raking his nails down John’s sides, and John’s breath caught in his throat. His blood heated in his veins and he squirmed beneath Sherlock’s lithe body, grinding upward as Sherlock pushed down.

“Oh god,” said Sherlock against John’s lips. John reached down and purposefully took two handfuls of Sherlock’s magnificent arse and squeezed, pulling him down further, creating even more delicious friction. Sherlock gasped above John, and the moan that followed made John so hard he wasn’t sure he could take it.

“ _Get these trousers off,_ ” rumbled John, and Sherlock could only nod, pulling away and falling beside John onto his back and wrenching at his belt. Beside him, John did the same. Jeans, pants, shoes, and socks all hit the floor, and within seconds they were naked and reaching for each other.

This time, John swung a leg over Sherlock’s thighs and settled there, aligning their hips.

“Hold on,” said Sherlock breathlessly. He leaned as far as he could, pulling open the second drawer of his bedside table and tossing a bottle of lube at John. “I’m sure you know the pros and cons of these things,” he gasped as John slicked up his own cock. When John ran his hand, dripping, over Sherlock’s cock, however, Sherlock gulped and went quiet. John ran his hand up and back down Sherlock’s cock again, and beneath him, Sherlock’s whole body shuddered.

He began to work Sherlock’s cock, up and down, creating a rhythm, and he watched Sherlock move below him. Sherlock bit down hard on his beautiful, full lower lip; he had no leverage to thrust up into John’s grasp with John seated on his thighs, but John could feel him straining to move. For a moment, he let go and Sherlock whined, but John grasped his own cock and lined the two up and began to thrust.

“You’re – a n-natural,” gasped Sherlock, thrusting against John in earnest, wrapping his long arms around John and pulling him close. John couldn’t speak; he could barely breathe. It felt so good, Sherlock’s body, Sherlock’s cock, Sherlock’s voice in his ear was _so good_ , and he couldn’t stop himself. His body took over and he lost the rhythm, his hips jutting forward involuntarily. He focused down on Sherlock, whose mouth was wide open and panting, his curly hair surrounding his head like a dark halo. There was sweat glistening on his skin and his eyes were half-closed in obvious, unquestionable pleasure.

“ _John,_ ” Sherlock whispered, and hearing his own name in Sherlock’s sweet, heavy voice pushed John over the edge. He fisted his hands in Sherlock’s hair and came with a whimper. Sherlock cried out as John pulled his hair, and followed immediately. John’s knees could not support him above Sherlock for long, but he managed to hold himself up long enough to press a soft kiss against Sherlock’s forehead before collapsing beside him.

They laid there, regaining their breath beside each other for who knew how long. John had no idea. Five minutes? Two hours? A week? He had no idea and he didn’t care. All he knew, as he stared up at Sherlock’s ceiling, was that he’d just fucked a man and it had been the most wonderful sexual experience he’d ever had.

“Good?” asked Sherlock, and John turned his head to see Sherlock looking at him expectantly. He almost looked _nervous_ , as though he wasn’t sure of his own performance.

“Amazing,” said John. Sherlock grinned, all uncertainty slipping away.

“It’ll be better next time,” said Sherlock. “I’ve got plans for you, John Watson. I’m going to lead you into a life of depravity.”

“I look forward to it,” said John, grinning and rolling towards Sherlock, planting a kiss against his lips. Sherlock reached over and laid a hand against John’s face, keeping him there for a longer kiss, a kiss with the promise of more, of something still coming.

“Should probably clean up,” John muttered after Sherlock released him. Sherlock groaned, but pulled himself up. He yanked the comforter up and tossed it in the corner. He walked out of his room, hips swaying a bit, and providing John with an _excellent_ view of his immaculate arse. He returned a moment later with a quilt. He threw it over the sheets and fell facedown onto the bed.

“We’ll _clean_ later,” he said. John chuckled and laid back down beside Sherlock.

“Nice quilt,” he said.

“Mrs. Hudson made it,” said Sherlock. “It was a gift from her.”

“Really?”

“No, I lied to you,” said Sherlock sarcastically. John snorted, and then yawned. He pulled up the covers and got beneath them.

“Gonna join me?” he asked, and Sherlock slunk beneath the sheets as well, snuggling up against John. “Wouldn’t really have taken you for a cuddler,” he commented.

“Shut up,” was all Sherlock said in reply, and together, they drifted off to sleep.

 

_xxx One Year Later xxx_

 

“Are you ready?” asked Sherlock.

“Not really,” said John. “Not remotely. I haven’t been a student in over five years.”

“Relax, you’ll do fine,” said Sherlock, sliding his hand into John’s. “And besides, you’ve always got Speedy’s to fall back on if you fail.”

“How reassuring,” said John, raising an eyebrow at Sherlock.

“Just pointing out all the logical options,” said Sherlock, laughing. ”It’s a bit funny, though. I’m twenty-two and I’ve graduated, and here you are, twenty-five and just getting started.”

“Oh, shut up,” said John, rolling his eyes.

“I’m going to hold my degree over your head.”

“The degree you didn’t even really want?”

“Yes, that very one,” said Sherlock, a teasing grin on his face. “At least you’re not paying for your own flat anymore.”

“Yes, I’ve got this extremely annoying flatmate now.”

“I hear he’s a genius, though,” said Sherlock.

“Oh,  he is. A real genius at being a pain in my arse.”

“I do hope you mean that literally,” purred Sherlock into John’s ear. John shivered.

“Well, now I do,” he said. Sherlock chuckled. He pulled away and smoothed John’s shoulders.

“Look at you, my little medical student,” he said. “I’ll help you with your homework and everything.”

“Shut it,” said John, grinning. He knew he would probably take Sherlock up on that offer in less than a week, even though it would probably result in being called an idiot even more often. He leaned forward and pressed his lips against Sherlock’s. Sherlock kissed him back without hesitation.

“I’ve got to tell you something,” said John, breaking the kiss but keeping his face close to Sherlock’s. He couldn’t bear to actually see Sherlock’s expression.

“What?” asked Sherlock quietly. He didn’t sound nervous or expectant. He might already _know_ , John realized, but he needed to say it anyway.

“Thank you,” he said. Sherlock chuckled.

“What for?”

“For everything,” said John. “You just… blustered into my life and completely changed my direction. And I wanted a direction change so much, but I didn’t know how to do it by myself. And you were so alive, so ready to go out and do what you wanted, that it made me believe that I could too. So… thank you.”

“You’re quite welcome, John,” said Sherlock. “But knowing you as I do, I’m sure you would’ve found this path sooner or later. All the same, I’m glad to have had such a positive influence on your life. It isn’t often that I hear the words ‘thank you’ directed at me with such… kindness.”

“Yeah, I know,” said John, irritated. Just because Sherlock was a _tad_ difficult to get along with didn’t mean his clients should be allowed to be so appallingly rude.

“And I suppose I should thank you, as well,” said Sherlock.

“For what?” asked John.

“For being who you are,” said Sherlock simply. John could feel himself blushing, and he was infinitely glad that he and Sherlock weren’t actually _looking_ at each other, because there was no way he’d survive the conversation. Sherlock slid his nose against John’s jaw, laid his lips close to John’s ear, and whispered, “I love you.”

“What?” blurted John loudly. Sherlock froze, clearly misinterpreting.

“I… I mean, it’s nothing…” he stammered.

“No, no,” said John, pulling Sherlock close as he tried to pull away. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock, who stood there like a piece of wood, unmoving and tense. “Say it again, and I promise you’ll like the response better.”

“I… love you?” said Sherlock, though it sounded like a question. John considered making him say it one more time, but he decided against torturing the poor man.

“I love you, too,” he said, laying a kiss on Sherlock’s neck. God, how he _loved_ Sherlock’s neck. And Sherlock’s hands. And Sherlock’s lips, his arse, his _cock_ , his whole personality. “I love you so much,” he said. Unable to stop himself, he pulled out of their one-sided embrace and kissed Sherlock full on the mouth. Sherlock hugged John close, as though he were afraid that if he let go, John would disappear.

But John knew that he would _never_ disappear from Sherlock’s side. Sherlock Holmes had given him everything he ever could’ve asked for, just by mere suggestion, and by happenstance, John loved him. John adored him. He pulled away  and smiled up at Sherlock.

“Better response?” he asked. Sherlock grinned and nodded.

“Much better,” he said, then he leaned their foreheads together, shut his eyes, and said it again: “I love you, John.”

“I love you, Sherlock,” replied John. “And I’m going to love you even if you make me late to class on my first day, but I’d rather it didn’t come to that.” Sherlock laughed, kissed John firmly, and then pushed him out the door of 221 Baker Street towards the tube.

“Text me when you’re done with class,” said Sherlock. “Let me know how it goes. Try not to be too boring about it, though.” John laughed, kissed Sherlock goodbye one more time, and then popped into Speedy’s.

Mrs. Hudson had found someone to replace John in the early mornings. It was eight am now, though, so both Greg and Molly were in the shop. John walked up the counter and grinned at Molly.

“First day?” asked Molly, who looked excited for him. John nodded.

“I’m going to need a double espresso, Moll,” he said. “No way I can get through these classes without some love.” Molly laughed.

“You’re going to become one of the insomniac students,” she said. Greg handed John his coffee over the counter.

“Good luck, mate,” he said, grinning.

“Cheers,” said John. “Hope you like my old shifts.”

“Like hell,” said Greg, groaning. “But you still take over my bloody awful Friday evenings here, so I think we’re square.” John laughed and waved goodbye to his coworkers. He began walking towards the station nearby. He was absorbed his excitement about the coming day. He couldn’t wait to tell Sherlock about it. He hoped Sherlock would actually _listen_ to John’s stories about university, but he supposed that was a bit much, even for Sherlock. He chuckled to himself.

He was halfway down the street when he heard Sherlock’s voice behind him.

“HAVE A NICE DAY AT _SCHOOL_ , JOHN!”

He turned around and saw Sherlock’s head poking out of the top window. He laughed and shook his head.

“DON’T FORGET THE MILK, DEAR!” John gave Sherlock a thumbs up in acknowledgment.

“I LOVE YOU!” John’s heart sped up, and he decided that once, this time, it was alright to give in to Sherlock’s pushing.

“I LOVE YOU, TOO,” he shouted back. People were staring, but John didn’t care. He waved and then turned around, walking towards the tube station.

He was _excited_ now, the way Sherlock had been _excited_ when John first met him. He was going to be a doctor. And thank god, he no longer had the four-thirty am shifts at Speedy’s.


End file.
